


Say Goodnight to Mommy

by castiel_in_his_cell



Series: r i d i c u l o u s      f a i t h [2]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), DCU (Movies), Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:43:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4844525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castiel_in_his_cell/pseuds/castiel_in_his_cell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the funeral of Mary Winchester, Dean struggles to stop himself from collapsing. It is the first time Dean sees Mr. Rodgers after the night of the Winchester house fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say Goodnight to Mommy

It’s ironic. It’s ironic to be standing in the glowing sun on the greenest grass where, if it were any other day, Dean would be running around and playing in the field. With the sky looking so endless and blue in the perfect summer warmth, Dean would have probably been having a picnic with his mom and dad. Today seems like a beautiful day, apart from one little thing. His mom is dead.

Dean feels like the world is mocking him, as he watches the coffin lower into the ground. The clouds no longer look comforting and bright, instead he feels like they are laughing at him. How can such a day of perfection even exist when his mum is now nothing but a sack of drooping skin and bones? The moment the thought slips into his head, he regrets thinking it. This just goes to show that even when a part of Dean dies, the world just keeps on turning.

There is a crowd of mourning friends and family standing around the hole in the ground, with eyes curved in in grief while they wipe leaking tears from the corners of their reddened tear ducts. Mr. Rodgers is there too. His head is bowed and his face looks solemn.

The soil beneath Dean’s feet is soft and flexible, and he imagines it caving in and swallowing him, taking him from this world, so he just wouldn’t have to deal with it anymore. But no. There he stands in the world he does not long to be in, in a crumpled black suit, clutching is Captain America action figure. The superhero is packed into his little fist. Dean holds onto it so tight that the edges of his delicate knuckles turn from a healthy glow of peach to stark white, as if his innocence had been overrun by blinding bright evils of this world.

“Cap would be brave, so I will be too.” He tells himself as he stares down at the righteous hero, who is staring right back at him. This action figure was the only one of Dean’s toys that had survived that fire months ago.

Now the coffin has been lowered, and Dean watches his dad shovel the first pile of soil onto it. John’s drags the shovel and shuffles towards the grave. He lifts a pile of soil lazily, and with much difficulty. Dean shudders at the thought that this man might not ever be the strong, steady father he once knew. It lands with a dull thump on the wood. He wonders how his beautiful mother could have possibly been reduced to a bunch of lifeless bones in a wooden box. 

Dean has felt numb lately; sometimes so numb that he can’t even feel the numbness, but that very thought hit him like a fierce gush of wind. It slaps his forehead and howls at his ears while the sudden flow of emotions surge from the high pressured jar of them he has kept in his mind. As the complex strings of thought flood his head like a wild tangle of scrambling yarn, he feels that he can’t handle this world anymore. Suddenly, a subtle discomfort rises in his chest. He tries to ignore it but the pain is relentless. It builds. And builds, and builds. 

The world goes still.

His brain feels as if it is throbbing in his head and all the air is being squeezed out of his lungs. It feels like a set of large hands have slipped up the flesh of his ribcage and are pumping all the precious air from his body. His breath turns ragged as he struggles to breathe. His breath is forced in and out through his gritted teeth jerkily, but he keeps his rigid posture, hoping no one will notice his pain. His vision turns blurry, and it swings from side to side as the siren of a fire truck rings in his mind. The shriek of the sound cuts seems to cut him, for he can barely stand now.

“No. Be strong now Dean. Cap would be able to get through this.” While his mind is in such chaos, he has no idea what the origin of this voice is, but he knows it’s there.

Ashamed of showing his weakness, he slips away from the crowd, and into the woods undetected. Once he has entered the realm of endless trees at the edges of the bright cemetery, he tucks Caption America into his coat pocket and bolts into a run. He doesn’t know what he’s running from, he just knows…somehow…that he must run.

He runs and runs and runs. The wind gushes through his hair, glides across his face and wisps past his shoulders. He runs until the imaginary sounds of sirens are overcome by the sweet bellowing of the wind. And the sight of his beautiful mother is overcome by the sight of blurry trees whooshing past him. It’s freeing. 

When his breath has given out, he slows to a stop. He bends over with his hands on his knees and struggles to get his breath back. As his chest rises and falls rapidly, he reaches his hand to wipe the sweat off his face. It is only then that he realises he is crying. Seeing that there is no one around, his body relaxes as he exhales like a balloon expelling its air. The flood of cooped up tears comes crashing through his eyes. 

His lip trembles and face contorts as tears drop off his cheeks and cut down his face. He weeps aggressively while the heavy and ragged breaths are forced out his teeth. This is accompanied by the quiet whining noises which he softens by clamping a hand on his mouth. It results in an irregular obscene symphony of panting, sniffling, and muffled screams. Every part of his body seems to be shaking wildly, so that he seems like a horrific contortion of what was once human. Like the kind of monster you would only see in horror movies. He proceeds to fall onto the ground, and he scrunches up fistfuls of dried leaves as he sits there.

For a minute, it’s heaven. The muscles in Dean’s round boyish face relax. His eyebrows unknot in sudden peace. His forehead undoes in the calm. And the fists he didn’t realise he was holding unclenches, as the sticky sweat of his palms release the innocent leaves. The trees whistle in the wind and it feels as if the world has been rid of all of its people. No people, no fuss. And it is then, that Dean learns the joys of being alone.

After a while, he wonders whether anyone has noticed his absence yet, then he reasons that even if he left the world, no one would care anyway. Not even Sammy.

A voice whispers out of the woods. It is still daylight, but the sun has begun setting, so it gives the sound an eerie feel which frightens Dean. The voice is faint and soft, almost inaudible. But as the voice comes closer, Dean can hear it.

“Dean.” The voice calls. Dean is relieved to hear someone is looking for him.

“Dad?” He calls out.

From the corner of his eye, a dark figure is revealed from the trees. Dean spirals around to find Mr. Rodgers. 

“Oh.” Dean mumbles in disappointment.

“What are you doing here Dean?” Mr. Rodgers inquires.

“Where’s my dad?” Dean’s childish insensitivity to his heartfelt concern does not startle him. And he answers without hesitation.

“Your dad and I looked for a while, but I guess he gave up.”

“And you didn’t?”

“Well, no.”

“Why?”

There is a pause.

“Because you’re my friend.” 

Another pause.

Dean is taken aback at this sudden strange statement; after all, he didn’t know Mr. Rodgers very well. Why would he assume they were friends? Of course, Dean has had one or two friends before, but most children took no notice of him, for Dean was a simple child, and no other kid saw anything special in him…until now. Before the awkward silence hangs in the air for a second longer, Mr. Rodgers sits down next to Dean.

“You’re not my friend.” Dean retorts.

Dean shuffles away from him, but is reluctant to stand up and leave because curiosity pulls him back down. He wonders why Mr. Rodgers is so keen to talk to him.

“Why not?” Mr. Rodgers asks.

“Because you’re old.”

“No I’m not.” Simon replies without hesitation.

“Yes you are.” Dean whines.

“If I was so old, then how could I be your friend?”

“Stop it.” None of Dean’s usual childish tricks seem to work on this man. Every child has a mental book on ways to win every argument, and when a conversation like this arises, the child flicks through the book, and decides on the best comeback to retort. To Dean, it’s a strategic affair, but he feels as if Mr. Rodgers has read his secret collection from cover to cover. 

“Why?”

“Because you’re annoying.” An air of agitation rises from Dean’s words.

“Why?” Mr. Rodgers plays this child’s game as if he is one himself.

“Because you talk too much.”

“Why?”

“Be quiet.”

“Why?”

“Please stop talking!” Dean has no time to apologize for shouting at him before Mr. Rodgers responds.

“Why?”

“SHUT UP!” The words are pushed out Dean’s teeth before he can think.

“WHY?”

“BECAUSE MY MOM JUST DIED!”

Silence.

Dean is shocked that he has heard himself say the words he didn’t dare to believe. They stare at each other. The air seems still.

Simon watches a single stream of tears slip down the side of Dean’s innocent face.

“My mom just died.” He repeats it in a whisper, but this time it’s less angry and more of a relentless calm. The words slip through his thin lips like an icy cold mist which would burn if it touched your skin. 

“My mom just died.” He bows his head down into his hands and weeps at the sudden revelation. Once he said it, he couldn’t stop. And he no longer cared that someone was watching…because that someone was just Mr. Rodgers.

“My mom just died.” He says for the final time and looks up to find Mr. Rodgers dark green eyes staring back at him. Not only were they green, they curved softly around the edges in empathy and sorrow. It was then, that Dean truly looked at Mr. Rodgers. The man’s face was pale, but it didn’t make him look unwell, it was a sort of neutral pale that didn’t catch anyone’s eye. He had a slim nose, thin lips and eyes that were heavily indented into his skull. Every turn, every position, every line, every curve of his face was spaced so evenly, so normally. His face was the kind that you wouldn’t remember, until you looked at it long enough.

They remain there for just a couple more moments. Each time with Dean praying it was a moment longer.

“You do know I have to take you back to your dad right?”

“No, I just want to stay here…alone. Just give me some more time alone. Please.”

“Sure.”

There is a pause.

“You’re really gonna let me stay?”

“Yeah.”

Mr. Rodgers gets up and starts to walk away.

“Why?” 

By the time Dean asks, Mr. Rodgers is already halfway into the dark woods.

“Because you’re my friend.”

**Author's Note:**

> Credits to my 'idea guy', Dione Hodges. This fic is the 2nd part to a series. A 3rd will be coming soon :) Hope you liked it!


End file.
